A Tale of a Tactile Detective
by May a Chance
Summary: (and his too-kind, too-wonderful, ex-military fiancée) OR, the one where John is the only thing keeping Sherlock sane and New Scotland Yard is having a bit of trouble with the idea of humanity.


**I finally got around to watching The Abominable Bride and it's brilliant! I loved it so freaking much! I'm now even more desperate for the next episode.**

* * *

An involuntary spasm made its way up the leg of one Captain John Watson. His leg jerked, once and then twice, and several times more before the spasms stopped. With a sigh, the soldier moved a hand to rest on his knee, carefully rubbing at it in hopes of easing the pain that spread up his leg as quick as wildfire. Another spasm shocked up his leg shortly before the soldier allowed a grimaced of pain. The person next to him, an aging woman with graying hair and dark eyes, gave him a tight smile. She had a grey-blue handbag clutched on her lap.

"Leg alright?" She asked, taking in his army fatigues and vaguely pained expression.

John smiled politely, giving a gentle nod. "Yeah, just seizing a bit. Hey, can I get out for just a minute?" She nodded, shifting out of her seat to allow John through. He stood, carefully stretching his leg out with a long grimace.

 _'_ _Damn,'_ he thought, and not for the first time. _'Should have taken up Mycroft's offer.'_

The elderly woman moved out of his way again, and John eased back down into the chair, clutching at the arm of his chair. He desperately wished the flight would just be through already.

* * *

Upon slipping into the gentle warmth of 221b, Baker Street, John was greeted by the soft sound of a bow crying along the strings of a perfectly tuned violin.

"Sherlock?" John called, hoping his voice would carry to the second floor.

The tune, which John recognized as one of Sherlock's own pieces, _Nocturnal_ , came to an abrupt pause mid note.

"John?" The consulting detective called, though his tone was reserved.

How many times, John wondered, had the brilliant man heard something and called back for his husband? How many times had he been disappointed that his mind, that brilliant creation, had created something that simply wasn't there?

"Yeah Sher! It's me! I'm home!" A stoic face with dark, wild hair appeared at the top of the steps just as John began to take them, careful of his injured leg.

Sherlock looked wonderful. His skin, a slightly unnatural shade of paleness that was entirely too common in the rainy land known as London, showed a lack of vitamin D and John made a mental note to pick up a bottle of vitamins the next time he had a chance. Ebony black hair the colour of the sky on a moonless night looked as silky as ever, clearly fresh-washed. Not even the slightest touch of stubble, either, graced his face and not for the first time John found himself wondering if the consulting detective shaved every few hours to avoid such things. Even the detective's dark eyes shone, bright, at John.

The grin that broke across the detective's face strangely reminded John of a child, just delivered their favourite treat. "John!" He swept down the stairs, dressed carefully in one of his sleek suits, violin still in hand.

A moment later, John found himself caged in by Sherlock's long, warm arms.

Sherlock was quite a bit taller than John, standing at an easy six feet whilst John hung at five and a half feet, embarrassingly short. But for one of the first times in his life (the others being very long, tedious plane rides in which Sherlock's too-long limbs had most certainly been causing him trouble, even if he would never admit it. John had remained relatively comfortable throughout the entire flight,) John found himself delighted by his short stature. Sherlock enveloped him like he was never going to let go and was John _ever_ delighted by that prospect. Snuggling deeper into Sherlock's embrace, John moved his head the side and rested it, gently, on his boyfriend's shoulder.

The other bent over him, carefully pulling the army doctor closer and resting his own head upon John's. Practically purring, the consulting detective snuggled into John's soft blond hair.

"You're home," he breathed.

John let out a predictable snort, pulling away just enough to look up at his fiancée. "A bit beneath you normal deductions," he teased with a fond smile.

"I don't care," the detective murmured into John's hair. "You're _here_."

Ever comforting, John patted the other man's back and stepped away, smiling at Sherlock. Suddenly, the detective seemed to come to the realisation that John was not supposed to be home at that particular point in time, and that his army fatigues seemed just a wee bit tight around his left shoulder.

"You've been shot!" He exclaimed, continuing to 'size-up' the captain.

John nodded his confirmation, continuing to favour his now stronger left leg.

Sherlock frowned. "No, no, no… You were only shot once… But your leg is bandaged too…"

"Shrapnel from one of the bombs," John offered with a pained smile.

Again, John found himself swept up by the immensely long arms that belonged to one Sherlock Holmes. One hand roamed up and down John's back, firm and gentle and carefully avoiding the bandaged area of his left shoulder. Sherlock, the soldier suddenly realized, would make quite a good furnace. He almost seemed to radiate heat as John snuggled deeper into the embrace. Most people seemed to think of Sherlock as cold and impersonal, but to a man with no family left and no life save for that which had just been cruelly torn away from him, he was the warmest creature in existence.

Not the hottest, no, but undoubtedly the warmest.

Not for the first time in his life, John found himself wishing he could curl up in the eternal warmth and never, ever, leave.

"You idiot," breathed Sherlock.

* * *

A week later, John awoke to the rather unpleasant sound of voices and heavy books being tossed around, landing in what were likely haphazard piles. With a long and rather loud yawn, John hesitantly sat up, the covers of Sherlock and his bed falling away to reveal his bare chest and bandaged shoulder. Shoving the covers yet farther away, John clumsily made his way to his feet, grasping at the bedside table for support. Within a mere moment, he had stubbed his toe and covered it with a soft curse.

He fumbled with the lamp for a second before giving up and smacking the wall to rid the room of the darkness. The overhead light flickered on.

Having suddenly regained the ability to see, John grimaced and squinted his eyes before snatching up the door handle and throwing it open, stepping into a yet brighter room.

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, running a fist into his sleep-blurred eyes. Eventually his vision cleared, and John continued past the other two doors in the hallway and into the comfortable living room. The sight that greeted him was most certainly not the one John had been hoping for. A group of at least ten individuals, all carefully dressed in formal business attire, turned to look at John. One, a woman with a tidy brown ponytail, coughed slightly.

John abruptly became aware that he seemed to be severely underdressed for the situation. No matter. His home his rules.

(or possibly Sherlock's home Sherlock's rules, but nonetheless)

One, a man with greying hair and a severe face, spoke. "Who are you?"

"Who am _I_? Who are you! I live here!"

Another member of the well-dressed group, a man with slightly wild hair, mumbled something under his breath. "Great. Freak's moved."

John turned his steely gaze to the man. "This flat is the residence of one Sherlock Holmes, one John Watson, that's me, and one Duke Arthur Pendragon."

The first man with the greying hair looked to be caught somewhere between confusion and horror.

"Look, sir, I'm afraid you're incorrect. This flat belongs to Sherlock Holmes and he is the on-"

"No. I have been living in this flat whenever I am home for the past several years. I don't know _when_ you were last here or what connection you have to my fiancée, but you have got to leave."

The woman spluttered. "Freak has flatmates?!"

John rolled his eyes. "No, a fiancée. Me. Duke's the cat. I hardly think _he_ counts as a flatmate."

At that particular instant, Sherlock chose to breeze into the flat with no warning whatsoever. "John we've got a case!" He looked delighted, like a child on Christmas morning who was getting ready to open their biggest present. "Three suicides!"

John gently rolled his eyes, smiling at his fiancée. "Sherlock, we have company."

"Of course we do. They're performing a drugs bust. Strange, considering they're all on the homicide squad."

"They were quite keen volunteers."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Obviously_. Now come on John, our cabs downstairs."

Suddenly being bustled out the door, John protested. "Sherlock, I don't even have a shirt one!"

"You reckon we'll be invited to the wedding?" The brunette woman asked behind them.


End file.
